don’t worry
about the trash in your yard
it’s not
from my yard
it’s from all the thoughts
that heap up
in the middle of the storm
with a gig of their own

she doesn’t know who she is
all the clouds look like rain
every man walks by
in a white t-shirt and faded jeans
and no one ever asks her
who she is – no one ever wants to know
where she came from
all her weather she brings with her
all the storms she leaves behind

late night crackle of fire
early June heat like mid-summer swelter
bad news on the horizon

I take steps backwards, and
a hand on my back pushes
me to press on

put popcorn in the fire
ice in a glass
small joys


‘don’t drop the soap’, he said
as if I were headed to the penitentiary
any time soon, I suppose
that is where the penitent go for redemption
by definition, all of our dust
we carry on our shoes, if they be
one hundred or my own three sets
they carry the browsing history
of years of searching